In the time that you’ve known him, you have understood that Laurent LeClaire is a lot of things.

The first word that comes to mind is insatiable.

Even at the most improper moments, that man has his hands all over you, regardless of how many times you’ve tried to dissuade him, to remind him to keep his hands to himself when you’re in public.

The fact of the matter is that you two aren’t married, and his desire for you is, to put it simply, unending.

You’re his muse, finding pieces of yourself in everything he paints; not that you’d have much say in the matter—he’d paint only you for the rest of his life, with how much you’ve consumed him. He craves you much more than any man you’ve ever met, taking extra breaks at work to come see you, finding any opportunity to slip away.

Like tonight, where the two of you are seated at a table with a group of friends, playing an admittedly boring game of dominoes. He looks at you from across the table, that something in his eyes unmistakable, telling you what he wants and making you feel more than warm beneath the fabric of your dress.